The Poet and the Student
by omateido
Summary: Buffy can't finish her poetry homework. Spike is bored. Little one shot.


_Author's Note:_

_This poem has different titles, but this one seemed the one most likely to lull Buffy into a false sense of security. I don't have a timeline. These characters aren't mine. Neither is the poem. A woman can dream, can't she?_

Buffy sat with her head down, her pencil tapping against the page she was reading. She glanced up and looked around the Magic Box. Giles was standing behind the counter carefully reading through a huge book. She smiled at the frown of concentration on his face. She recognized it as different from the frown of fear and shock when he actually found the answers. Willow and Tara sat on the opposite side of the round table. They both had opposite hands turning pages and she knew their hands must have been clasped under the table. Xander sat between her and Tara, flipping through the book he had, only stopping when there was an interesting picture. She could hear Anya humming quietly in the front of the store, and little sounds indicating she was still busy rearranging her fertility display. To her left was Spike, sitting on the stairs, chipping away the black nail polish on his fingers. He looked like he was concentrating harder than anyone else in the store. She shook her head, and with a sideways smile, went back to work. Reading the next few lines she let out a small laugh.

"AHA! I knew you weren't doing school work!" Xander shouted as he pointed a finger at her. Tara and Willow jumped apart a little, and looked up startled. Buffy could still hear Anya humming, unperturbed, and Giles, without looking up, said

"Xander, please leave Buffy alone. She has to finish her paper. If this is so tedious feel free to go and get some more donuts."

"But there's still two boxes left from my last run" Xander said, slamming his book closed. "Plus, Buffy has never laughed at homework in her life. Ever. What are you doing, anyway?"

As Xander leaned over, Buffy shuffled her books farther away. "I'm reading poetry by an old dead English guy. And it sucks. I can't understand half of it, and what I do understand, can't be right."

"Hmm…then why are you laughing?"

"I told you, it can't be right. Giles, will you help me? Please?" She batted her eyelashes and pouted. Giles, however, did not even bother to look up from his book.

"Buffy, I am not old. I am busy trying to figure what attacked you last night, so please let me research."

Buffy sighed and turned back to her page.

"Why don't you ask Spike?" Giles said with a wave of his hand towards the stairs." Buffy looked up at Spike, shocked. "He is, after all, Old, Dead and English."

Buffy looked at Spike doubtfully. Spike looked right back at Buffy. She sighed and went back to her page, frowning at the next line. A moment later, she looked up again. Spike was still looking at her with his head tilted, one eyebrow raised.

"Spike, will you please help me with my homework?" Buffy said in a flat tone. To her surprise Spike got up and took a seat at the table to her left.

"What's it you reading, then?" He said, pulling the book towards himself. Buffy looked at him, her shock evident.

"How bored are you?" She asked

"Bored enough to help you with your poetry homework, evidently. John Donne, eh?"

"Uh…yeah. I have to dissect the poem, and then write a modern version. I have to use all the analytical poetry terms like meter, and allusion…and…and, that's all I got."

"Right, first you've got to figure out what it's about."

"I've been trying to do that for the last hour!" Buffy said loudly, thumping her head on the table.

Willow cleared her throat and looked pointedly at the training room. Buffy sighed and started gathering her stuff.

"Come on, let's go into the back."

When they got to the training room, Spike sat down, legs crossed, and Buffy sat opposite him, mirroring his position on the training mats.

"So…figuring it out."

"Right, which poem is it?"

"_Going to Bed_." Spike chuckled.

"Had to choose the racy on, didn't you pet?"

"Racy, no racy. Going to bed…sleep? Weren't they all wholesome back then? With the separate beds, and all that stuff?"

"Well, yeah. But this isn't the Victorian, stick-up your poncy ass age. This is the 1500s. And plus, Donne was a rebel." Buffy lifted one eyebrow skeptically.

"OK, so my poem is about sex."

"Yes."

"Dammit."

"So you've read it through, right?"

"Yeah….kinda. But I just glaze over, and can't remember what I've read."

"OK, so let's do it line by line." Buffy nodded and started reading.

"Out loud, luv."

"Out loud? Umm…ok. _Come, Madam, all…rest my powers defy_"

"Read it like you mean it."

"But I don't mean it."

"OK, give it here then."

"What?"

"give. The. Book. To. Me."

"OK."

"_Come, Madam, all rest my powers defy/until I labor, I in labor lie."_

"Your voice totally just when Gilesish!"

"Did not."

"Did too!"

"Did n-…doesn't matter. So what does he mean?"

"OK, well come here, because I can't relax, until I work, I sleep while I work?"

"Almost. Come here, I cannot even rest until I, you know, work out my stress, and I'm waiting until then, I can't relax otherwise."

"So…he needs to get some before he can sleep?"

"Yep."

"OK" Buffy started scribbling in her notebook, as Spike watched her tongue dart out as she concentrated. When Buffy looked up she noticed Spike's gaze. "What?"

"Nothing. So there he is using a pun. The two meanings of labor." Buffy nodded and continued to write. When she looked up he continued.

"Next lines. _The foe oft-times having the foe in sight/is tir'd with standing though he never fight."_ He looked at Buffy, waiting for her to answer. "Think about when Angelus was 'bout. You never really fought that much, did you?"

"No, and it was frustrating as hell. Oh, and it was tiring. Got it. So waiting around for something to happen, and you're all tensed up is just as exhausting as fighting sometimes."

"Right."

"But he's not fighting."

"It's a metaphor."

"Oh. Right."

"_Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering/but a fair fairer world encompassing"_

"Fair fairer?"

"Get undressed, your girdle shines like the stars, but what's inside is a fair bit more beautiful than our world. He is likening her clothes to the stars, but saying that when her body is up against the earth, her body wins; no competition."

Spike smiled as he watched her scribbling again. She would stop, her pencil hovering over the page, then return to her page with even more vehemence.

"_unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear/that the eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there."_

"Spangled breastplate?"

"Think of it still as the metaphor of foe against foe. She has to take off her armor."

"Both emotional and physical." Buffy said with a nod. Spike's eyes lit up, and smiled again at her. Buffy couldn't help notice that it wasn't his usual sneer, but a smile of pure happiness, and maybe…pride?

"Right."

"And her bearing her breasts…well she's so hot that even busy people would be stopped in their tracks."

"Exactly."

"She sounds pretty perfect."

"To him, she may have been. _Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime/tells me from you that now it is bedtime_."

"But laces don't make a noise, and what is she unlacing anyway?"

"She's unlacing her corset. And what he's saying is that the noise of the lace through the holes is a signal for him."

"Like the chime of the clock tower cause he didn't have a watch?"

"Exactly."

"So his Pavlovian response to her getting undressed is it's time to get busy?"

"Pavlovian?"

"What, I know stuff."

"Course you do, pet. That's exactly right."

As they continued, Buffy scooted closer and closer. By the time they reached half way through, they were sitting thigh to thigh. Spike's voice was softer, and, Buffy thought, almost husky. As Buffy listened, she though he never sounded more sexy than when he was reading scandalous poetry.

"_License my roving hands, and let them go/ before, behind, between, above, below."_

They sat in silence, until Buffy snapped out of it. "So that's kinda obvious, huh."

Spike, relieved to not be the first to have to talk, as he found it difficult to keep his voice neutral as she leaned in to him to read the words. "Yeah. Kind of."

They shared a grin, and continued reading. Buffy still scribbled in her notebook. Spike was left handed so he held the book in his left. There hands lay on their thighs, both trying to let them lay in a way that seemed nonchalant.

Finally, they were nearing the end, and their heads were bent together, Buffy's notebook forgotten as they read the last few lines.

"_Then, since that I may know/as liberally, as to a midwife, show /Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence/there is no penance due to innocence. /to teach thee, I am naked first; why then/ what needst thou have more covering than a man."_

"So," Buffy started, her voice barely more than a whisper," he wants her to reveal herself, as much to a midwife…as in spread her legs. He says; get into bed, and what?"

Spike spoke equally softly, "He's saying that she won't be punished by God, the penance part, because she is too innocent as to understand what she is doing."

"So that part at the end, what does it matter?"

"Well think back, women are always wearing seven skirts, and hats, and gloves. More covered than men, but he's saying, you don't have to make yourself more covered than me as a man, cause I'm lying here naked, waiting to teach you what it's all about."

"Sex?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. That's…" Buffy cleared her throat into her hand. "Well, that's not what I expected when I chose this poem."

Spike chuckled softly, and looked into her eyes. All of a sudden, they were both very aware of how close they were sitting, how hushed their voices were, and how erotic the poem was they just shared.

"Was it just the sex?"

"Would you write a poem about someone who was just the sex? He was worshipping her body with his words. That kind of passion, well it has to mean something, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I mean, it's not just any old woman that a man writes poetry about." Spike said, keeping eye contact.

"You're probably right." They sat in silence for another moment, until Buffy shook her head "I should go. You know, research with the gang. Or, write up this paper."

"Yeah, I'm gonna go have a fag."

"Right."

"Out back."

"OK."

Buffy stood slowly, smoothing down her shirt, as Spike stood up and turned to go.

"Oh, Buffy." She looked up at the sound of her name coming from him. She turned back towards him. He was holding out the book of poems to her. She looked down at the book, then up at his face. She reached out.

"Thanks" She said, whispering, not ready to ruin the moment. When their hands met in the exchange, Buffy felt warmth spread from his touch into her. Spike pulled back his hand quickly.

"Right, then." He said, his voice back to normal. Buffy nodded, and, gathering her books, headed into the store.

Buffy sat down at the table, and stared out into nothingness.

"So, Buffster, did he help?" Xander asked, watching his friend carefully.

"What?" She asked, focusing back to the table, where everyone was looking at her. Tara had a little grin on her face, Willow was looking at her very carefully, and Xander was intently inspecting her. She schooled her features. "Oh yeah. Really helpful. I wouldn't have known half that stuff."

"Where did he learn it? How does he know it?" Xander asked sharply.

"I don't know, I didn't ask."

"Why not? You were in there for like an hour. What were you talking about?"

"Xander!" Willow said sharply, he backed off a little.

"I just want to know where he would get that kind of knowledge."

"He…He's been around for a long time" Tara said, looking down at the book in front of her.

"Buffy…" Willow started

"It was nothing." Buffy said. "He just knew the answers I needed."

"That's all, right?" Xander said

"Yeah, that's all." Buffy said, catching movement in the corner of her eye. The corner of the leather duster disappearing had her jumping up. "Spike, wait." She called out, ignoring the words of her friends. She caught up with him outside.

"Spike. I didn't mean that."

"Mean what, Slayer?" He was leaning against a wall out back, searching his duster for cigarettes.

"I know you heard, Spike." She said as he lit up. Spike sighed.

"Listen, you know how I feel about you. And I know how you feel about me. So…sorry. I just got carried away I guess." They stood in silence. "Man can dream, can't he?"

"No" Buffy said, looking past him, out the alley.

"OK, I'm not a man, but a vamp can dream too."

"What?" She said, her eyes jumping back to his. "What I mean is, no. You obviously don't know how I feel about you."

And with that she crossed the alley, took the cigarette out of his mouth, tossing it to the ground, and pulled his head down to hers. It took a moment for Spike to react, but when he did he spun her around, her back against the wall, framing her face with has hands on the brick.

As they pulled apart for Buffy to breathe, he looked at her, questioningly. "They're not my words, Buffy."

"Not every man can be a poet. Some people just have a way with words. I think we're more action people."

"You'd be surprised."

"I look forward to it."

Neither heard Xander's "I told you so" in the background.


End file.
